


heartbreak is a warm sensation

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:42:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27920962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Surely Cas knew too, right? Dean wants so badly to believe that he knew. But he knows he didn’t. “The one thing I want, it’s something I know I can’t have.” The words ring in Dean’s head more than any of the others.Little snippet of what should've been on Deans mind somewhere after 15x19.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46
Collections: Anonymous





	heartbreak is a warm sensation

Dean has entirely too much time now. At first, he’d enjoyed all the time he was suddenly given  — he sleeps in for maybe the first time in decades, just because he can, because he wants to, not because he is too exhausted to stand or because he’s blackout drunk. He sits in his robe and enjoys his coffee without the looming threat of whatever they are dealing with, without books full of lore spread out across the table. He drives with Miracle on the passenger seat and takes long walks with him (Sam  _ had _ made jokes about it and Dean  _ had _ pretended to be annoyed by them). 

But now, a couple of weeks into their freedom, he wonders what other people do with this amount of free time. 

Sam is spending less and less time in the Bunker. At first, Eileen had been a frequent guest, but they pretty quickly started hanging out at her place instead. Dean can’t fault them — the Bunker is pretty big, but they are bound to run into him all the time and he figures they are craving some time alone. After losing her  _ twice _ , and getting her back, it’s like Sam can’t keep his eyes off her for too long. 

And then there had been the time the three of them were drinking beer in the kitchen late at night, talking about everything and nothing, and when Eileen had gotten up to go to bed, Sam had stayed behind for a bit. They had sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the kind of silence they only got to enjoy now, before Sam had cleared his throat. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Dean had waited for him to continue, but he didn't. He wasn’t meeting Dean's eyes either. 

“You want to elaborate?” Dean had replied and he took the last swig of his beer, putting it down with a clank that was too loud to his own ears. 

“For getting her back, for getting everyone back, when you didn’t—” 

No, no, no,  _ no _ . Dean had immediately tensed and sat up straighter, gripping the bottle tighter and looked past Sam, who had finally looked up to him. He wanted to say something to make him stop talking, give him another throwaway comment about how it’s sad, yeah, but they gotta keep living, but he hadn’t known how to open his damn mouth. So Sam had continued.

“I mean, not just you, I miss him too, but..” He did a sort of shrug, like he didn’t know how to finish, and let the sentence come to nothing, waiting for Dean to say anything, or do anything, other than staring past him. 

Eventually, Dean did. 

“Yeah,” he said, his own voice sounding strange to him. “You don’t have to apologize. Not for that. I’m happy you got her back. You deserve it.” 

_ More than I would anyway,  _ he had thought.

Sam had looked at him with sad eyes and Dean knew it was time to get out, now, before the conversation went somewhere he definitely didn’t want it to go. Not tonight. Not ever. 

“Anyways, I’m gonna hit the hay.” He stood up, picking up all three beer bottles from the table and putting them next to the bin that definitely needed to be taken out in the morning. “You should probably get going too, Eileen’s waited long enough now.”

He gave Sam a half hearted wink and a grin and turned to leave, replying to Sam’s “Dean—” that indicated that he had wanted the conversation to continue and certainly not end like this with just a “Night Sammy” as he exited the kitchen.

On the way to his room he had forced himself to think about anything else, but he couldn’t stop one thought from entering his mind. Sam didn’t want to flaunt his love in front of Dean's face, didn’t want to force Dean to see the two of them being all sappy and happy and that was part of why he and Eileen were spending more time at her place. Dean hadn’t allowed the thought to go further than that. If there was one thing he was good at, it was repressing his feelings. 

But  _ now _ , with all this time, with nothing to do, with Sam practically living at Eileen's house… His walls are slowly starting to crumble. There is nothing to distract himself anymore. He decides to look for a case and go on a hunt, but he finds  _ nothing _ , and starts wondering if Jack had a hand in it. Not like he could ask him. 

But he wants to. He wants to ask him. Ask him what the hell he’s doing now, why it was so  _ easy _ for him to leave them, like they’re not his family at all. Why he just  _ left _ , without even thinking about what he’s leaving behind,  _ who _ he’s leaving behind. Deep down Dean knows that Jack is the only one who can do the job without screwing up, and he knows that he never told him he was family, told him the exact opposite, but the kid  _ had _ to know, right? That he could’ve stayed? 

Dean wishes he would have told him as much. And he wishes he would’ve at least asked him if there was a possibility, any way at all to bring back — 

_ No.  _ Dean slams his hand on the table.  _ Not going there.  _

His hand, balled in a fist, is lying exactly where he carved Castiel's name next to his and Sam’s. He can feel the wood pushing into his skin, intrusive and  _ loud _ . 

He closes his eyes and can feel his nails digging into his palm as he tries to stay calm and focus on something,  _ anything _ else. 

But he’s so tired. He may have slept more in the past few weeks than he has in the ten years before that, but he is tired. The kind of tired that’s seeped inside his bones and that sleep could never fix. The kind of tired that has made its home in him a long time ago and never left again, filling out every nook and cranny of his soul, his body, his heart, so much that it’s flooding over now. 

The relief that had rushed through him after they’d defeated God and he’d realised that there was no one pulling the strings anymore, that from now on, all of his decisions were his own, had gradually been replaced by anxiety.

All his choices are his now, but Dean feels like there are no more choices to make. No matter what he does now— continue to hunt, try and join Sam in building up Headquarters again, get out and find a normal job— none of it matters to him in the grand scheme of things. Because he’s going to have to do it alone. He’s going to have to go through the rest of his life on his own. He has Sam, and he will have Sam forever, and he has Jodie and the kids, he has Donna, has Garth, has more friends than he ever thought he would again, but they all have someone else. Someone to do it all with.

And Dean— Dean has no one. Not anymore. Not since—

He opens his eyes and loosens his grip, opening his palm slowly over the carving, tracing it with his finger. 

Surely Cas knew too, right? Dean wants so badly to believe that he knew. But he knows he didn’t.  _ “The one thing I want, it’s something I know I can’t have.”  _ The words ring in Dean’s head more than any of the others. 

And how could he blame him? When had Dean ever given him any reason to make him think otherwise? The constant anger, the outbursts, how he’d bring up Cas’ bad choices over and over and  _ over _ again, as if he didn’t have his own arsenal of regrets? As if Cas couldn’t have fired right back at him if he’d wanted to? 

Dean thinks that maybe the only thing Cas ever wanted from him was to ask him to stay. For Dean to just once tell him to stop leaving, for no other reason other than Dean wanting him here. But Dean doesn’t know how to do that. He knows his flaws, he knows that he needs people to stay without being asked— he’s terrified of everyone always leaving him, that he will always be the one left behind while everyone else moves on, away from him, but he doesn’t know how to ask. The bitter, angry part of him wanted Cas to stay because he  _ chose _ to, not because Dean told him to. And so he let Cas think, all the time, that he didn’t need him to stay. That he’d call when things got too much for him and Sam to handle. Because Cas might not have stayed, but he always came back. Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters.

Dean tears his eyes away from the carving and gets up, suddenly feeling like he can’t stand being in its presence for another second. He walks down to the entrance hall, his eyes darting up the stairs to the door before he can stop himself and he can almost see Cas there, coming home, rasping out a “ _ Hello Dean _ .” 

He needs a drink.

The beer almost slips out of his hands when he grabs it out of the fridge, but he manages to catch it by the bottleneck. He stares at it in his hands for a moment, wondering if he should just let it go and watch it shatter onto the cold kitchen floor, bringing a momentary sound into the silence of the Bunker, giving him something to clean up. He puts it down onto the counter instead without taking a sip, resting his elbows next to it and hiding his face in his hands.  _ Get a grip, Dean,  _ he whispers to himself repeatedly, his voice growing louder with each mantra. 

When he looks up again he can feel he’s been crying. His eyes land on the small dinner table and it’s too easy to picture Cas there too, drinking his morning coffee, focused on whatever article he’s reading about on his computer, mumbling distracted “ _ Thank you, Dean _ ”’s whenever Dean refills his cup. 

That’s what their life without Chuck should’ve been. Small moments like this in which Dean would feel so  _ content _ that he wondered how he’d ever thought he wasn’t in love with Cas.

Dean  _ thought _ he loved him when they ended up in Purgatory the first time and he spent months looking for Cas. Feelings were easier there, things felt more pure, there were no distractions. All that was on his mind was finding Cas, day in and day out, as he killed his way through countless monsters just to get the tiniest bit of information. And when he found him, when he saw him crouching at the water’s edge, he thought he loved him. 

Of course things got muddled and difficult once he returned, even more so when Cas returned. He didn’t know how to handle his feelings back in the real world, he had no idea how to deal with the trauma that comes with loving Cas like this, the fear that John Winchester had made sure to instill in him. 

So he told himself to stop. 

The second time they were in Purgatory, Dean  _ knew _ he loved him. It was all hidden behind a cloud of anger, irritation, grief and regret, but it was there. When they got seperated and Dean prayed, trying to explain what’s going on with him and telling Cas he forgave him, he really wanted to ask for forgiveness too. For never being able to say it and for, maybe, never getting to say it now.

When they reunited and Dean pulled him into his arms— just like all those years ago— he almost said it. But then Cas gave him an out, without knowing it, and he took it. It had to be enough. They were okay again. 

Dean knows he loves him, but he still doesn’t know  _ how _ to love him. He loves him, even if he doesn’t have the guts for it.

He’s had dreams where he wants to tell Cas. Sometimes they stand on the fishing dock, sometimes they’re in Purgatory, or heading out of the Bunker. It’s golden hour in almost every single one of them, and Cas turns to him, the sun directly behind him, making him look like he’s on a stage, backlit, ready for his close-ups. Dean just sees the blue of his eyes and just knows that he’ll never love anyone else like this, and he opens his mouth and says something  _ ugly _ . He never gets to say it right, it always streams out the wrong way and he’s forced to look at Cas’ heartbroken face. 

Heartbroken like when he told Cas that no one cared that he was broken. Heartbroken like he thought he saw on that muddy hill when he slipped out of Dean’s grip, yelling his name in desperation. Heartbroken like every time when Dean wouldn’t accept an apology, telling him they don’t need him or his help. Heartbroken like when he threw him out of the Bunker. Heartbroken like when he had Cas pinned to the floor, an angel blade raised. Heartbroken like when he told him he was dead to him. Heartbroken like when he didn’t stop him from walking out. 

He has too many versions of a heartbroken Cas in his mind. 

Dean always wakes up and wonders how Cas was able to love him through any of it. 

He knows they moved past all of it and evolved together, that they got better and better at communicating after every fight and how knowing each other so well, inside and out, kept making forgiving easier. 

He just wishes he would’ve gotten a chance to do it right, to say something Cas thought he’d never hear, and then grow old, grow better together. That’s what it all was supposed to lead to. He wanted to be a better person for Cas. He wanted to be the man Cas told him he  _ is _ . 

He wanted to hope that John Winchester, wherever he is, heaven, hell, somewhere in between, would see that Dean has defied everything he ever threw his way. He’s still angry and brazen, short-tempered and irrational, but he’s found people who stick with him regardless. He’s allowed to make mistakes with them. Years and years of telling him he doesn’t matter and Dean found a man, an angel, who rebelled against everything that’s ever been prophesied because he thought that Dean mattered more. He wanted John Winchester to see that the boy he wanted to make into a soldier, the perfect hunter, had fallen in love with the very thing he was supposed to kill, and was trying so hard to find a way to make it work. He was trying.

He should still be trying. 

He wants to still be trying.

The beer bottle bursts against the wall, but the sound isn’t loud enough, or satisfying enough, for Dean. 

The little energy he has left leaves him at once and he collapses onto the floor, his back against the cold, unforgiving metal of the fridge. His phone rings on the counter, but he can barely hear it. The cruel, painful déja vu doesn’t escape him. 

“Cas,” he whispers and can’t stop the tears streaming down his face. “Jack. Anyone, please, I need— “ A sob escapes Dean that sounds so unlike him it scares him. 

It takes him a few more minutes until he trusts himself to stand and clean up his mess. When he’s done he takes out the rest of the sixpack of beer out of the fridge and makes his way into his room, where a half drunk bottle of Jack is still on his nightstand. At least it makes for a dreamless sleep.

His phone, forgotten on the counter, shows two missed calls from Sam. And a text.

_ “Eileen thinks she finally found something on the Empty. It’s not much, but it is a start. Call me when you see this!”  _


End file.
